Heat

Simone

When I found out who had placed the fresh stock on the wrong shelf in the cold store, not only would hell be paid, their wages would be docked considerably. And, if they had any issue with that, they could be thankful they still had a job.  If they still had one.  I hadn’t yet made up my mind.

Today was not a day where I would be taking prisoners.  I had no space.  And very little patience.

“Someone looks like she could do with a day at the spa.”

I raised my head over the counter and saw two of the women I considered to be my closest friends.  However, if I was going to get a lecture on being too harsh on my employees and needing to find alternative ways to relax, I’d downgrade them to paying customers.

“I have no time for days at the spa.”  I stood up, aware that I was wearing chef whites that were anything but white and my face definitely had a brown streak down it from an unknown source.

Vanessa and Sophie were looking as if they were ready for a photoshoot for London’s top business women with perfect make-up and what were probably designer suits.  I felt decidedly under-washed at the very least.

“What time do you finish?  We’re treating ourselves to lunch, shopping, cocktails and maybe more shopping seeing as Jackson has Teddy for the full day.”  Vanessa beamed at me, one hand on her still softly rounded belly.  The clever money said that she wasn’t making any effort to lose the baby weight because it wouldn’t be that long before she was accumulating more of it.

I shook my head, wondering what fresh hell I’d designed for myself by running two restaurants and being in the midst of opening a third.  “I don’t think I will finish today.  I may as well just move in here or into Toad Hall.”  

“That’s a point.  Why exactly are you here?  I thought you were interviewing chefs at the new place today?” Sophie Slater knew all about running a business; she owned eight spas across the capital, with one specialising solely in men’s wellbeing.  I’d met her through Vanessa and we’d bonded over too much vodka and her tales of terrible one night stands – mine were sadly lacking because of, again, the whole time thing.  

Plus, we had five divorces between the two of us – there was nothing like sharing good divorce stories to solidify a friendship.

“I was.  But Van Gogh has phoned in sick and I can’t get in touch with Jack.  We have a party of ten in at one and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a food critic coming in at some point today.”  Which was never what I needed.  We had a list of London’s terrible tasters pinned up in the staff room, with their names, preferences, foibles and photos.  One picture was currently on the dartboard but needed replacing as it was a little too holey. 

Sophie raised a brow.  “You have a chef called Van Gogh?”

“Victor.  You know we rarely use normal names here.”

She gave a little nod, her blonde hair coming loose.  “Do we need to have the working-twenty-five-days-straight-isn’t-healthy-talk again?”

“What I need is a chef who is reliable and manages to get in to do their shifts.  I knew Van Gogh was starting to get twitchy.  His previous employer – Donny from Haven - told me that he did four months and then moved on elsewhere.  However, I was arrogant enough to think that he’d be different here.  More fucking fool me.”  I knew I was walking the boundary between completely losing the plot and chef-meltdown when the cuss words came out.

“And if you were at those interviews for the Tipsy Toad, you might be slaughtering two big fat birds with one stone.  How many times have you tried Jack?” Vanessa sat down on one of the bar stools, picking up the lunch time menu.  

Jack was one of my chefs at The Mount Street Social, probably my best chef out of the three, and possibly the most talented across both of my restaurants.  He had never let me down, despite me trying to find fault for no particular reason.

“Twice.  He worked last night so he might be sleeping.  You two get comfy; I’ll get Rich to serve you.  How’s Teddy, Van?”  I couldn’t not ask about her little boy who had stolen my heart.  He was three months old and as cute as peach pie with added sugar.

She gave a thoroughly satisfied smile.  “He’s starting to understand the concept of sleep, which is useful.  Seph babysat him last last night.  We came in to find Teddy asleep on Seph’s chest and Seph desperately trying not to fall asleep.  It really was cute.”  

She held out her phone and showed me a picture, Seph’s sleepy eyes looking over the thick-rimmed glasses that made him look like a hot geek.  Not that I was lusting after my friend’s younger brother.  He was eye candy but he confided that much over food that he felt like my brother.

“I assume he’s since put that on social media?”  Seph was nothing if not an attention whore.

“Indeed.  I think the likes were in the tens of thousands.  Jackson was calling him several names when I was leaving.”  She looked at the menu.  “I’m thinking a pre-shopping cocktail won’t hurt.”

“Have you stopped breastfeeding?” I knew she’d been finding it painful and difficult, having been on the end of an emotional phone call when she was telling me what a failure she was as a mother.

Vanessa nodded.  “Not the easiest decision, but we were mainly on formula anyway.  And he’s growing so much.  I gave it my best shot.”

Sophie put a hand on her shoulder.  “Stop it.  We’ve had this conversation.  And if you turn into a blubbering mess I will tell Jackson and you know what he’ll do.”

I smiled at Sophie.  We all knew what he would do.  Out of all of his brothers he was the biggest fixer and if he thought that Vanessa was still feeling down about the whole feeding thing, he’d be trying to make some huge gesture.

“I’m over it.  We have a healthy son who is on the ninety-seventh centile for his height.  And the rest of today is about me.”

The restaurant door opened and a mountain of a man walked through it; one that I recognised by the sound of his footsteps or even the faint scent of his cologne.  Working in a kitchen was intimate.  You spent fourteen-hour days together in a small confined space with a ton of heat.  It was pressured: food was an essential and everyone was a critic, especially on a Saturday night when the restaurant was packed and what could go wrong would.

But I could list the facts I knew about Jack Rhodes on both hands with a finger to spare.

“Do you need a lesson on how to answer your fucking phone?”  I snapped as soon as he was in hearing distance.

Jack gave me his usual half-amused glance.  Nothing I did or said ever pushed his buttons and I’d spent the last six months trying my best to do so.

“Sorry, Chef.  I’ve been busy.  I got your message though, so if you want me to take over I’m good to go.”  He started to take off his jacket, exposing biceps that his t-shirt looked to be strangling.  He was built, something Sophie had not failed to notice.  Hell, neither had I and I’d been dead from the waist down for the last half-decade.

“If you can, it means I can get to Toad Hall to interview the chefs.”  The Tipsy Toad was my latest project, a tapas bar aimed at mid to high range diners, looking for an intimate, less formal experience than a high-end restaurant.  The Mount Street Social and my first restaurant, Blue, were doing phenomenally, except for the odd staffing issue.  Toad Hall, as we’d nicknamed it, was my baby.  In my head it was going to be the sort of place where I wanted to hang out and relax, enjoy good food and drinks in a subtle and atmospheric building.  I’d taken breaks in Spain and Cuba and had checked out the eateries that were off the beaten track, finding inspiration easily. 

Jack studied me, making me wish I could tell what he was thinking just for once, and then gave a subtle nod.  “I got this.  You sort yourself out.  You might want to start with a shower.”

I moved my hand up to where he’d glanced.  “I think it’s stock.  Long story, but Ramirez is getting his pay docked.”

His grin froze me.  For the most of it, I ignored that fact that Jack was one of the most attractive men currently in my life.  This wasn’t because I had a no banging my employees policy – we worked in a kitchen; sex and food kind of hung together and at the end of many a busy shift there were shenanigans of the highest order that no one acknowledged because shit like that happened – but I didn’t need any complications.  Given how little I knew about Jack, I was wary.  Experience had taught me well.

“I take it he’s been rushing the cold store?”

“You knew?” I raised my brows so the fire leaving my nostrils didn’t singe them.

Jack shrugged then folded his arms, making his biceps bulge.  I was pretty sure that Sophie was gawping at this point.

“I’ve spoken to him twice already.  He’s careless and too concerned about banging his new girlfriend to do his job properly. Let me have another word.”

“Why? The last two words you had clearly weren’t very effective.”  There had been a memo in management school about how to speak to your staff but I’d missed it, mainly because I hadn’t attended.  No chef I’d ever worked under had taught me anything less than being blunt.  There wasn’t time.

Jack didn’t flinch.  “They were more effective than you’d think.  Ramirez is good at a lot of stuff, just not organising at the end of the day.  Trust me.”

My back stiffened.  I despised being told to trust anyone, two marriages had seen to that, plus a father who, despite being an amazing chef and mentor, had seen me as only one thing.

“He cocks up again and he’s gone.  The specials, the belly pork and David from the fish market will be later.  Think about the salted cod.”  I moved away from him, back towards Vanessa and Sophie and pulling off my apron that looked as if the contents of six pans had been thrown over it.  Generally, I had more decorum with my chefs as we needed to work as a team, but Jack’s persistent ghosting was irritating more than it should.

“What time are you interviewing?” Sophie had just given her order to Rich.

“In about two hours.  I need to look less cheffy and it might take that long.”  I also smelled faintly of the fish we were serving today having already gutted and boned the salmon myself.

“Go grab a shower then have a cocktail with us.  You might need something to temper you after that.”  Vanessa gestured towards Jack, who was giving instructions to the other seven members of the kitchen team who were on duty. His manner was the opposite of mine: quieter, fewer words, but he commanded as much respect.  I couldn’t dispute that.

“You realise you’re staring at your chef?” 

I jumped as Sophie whisper in my ear, her hand clamping down on my arm.

“Jesus, you need a bell round your neck!”

“Only on a weekend.  But seriously, you two have some serious sparks.  I’m a tad jealous.  Tapping that would be a pleasure and a half.” Sophie licked her lips, something that I found rather disturbing.

I looked at Vanessa and she shook her head.  “I’m assuming she’s between fuck buddies again?”  Sophie was notorious for casual relationships.  She ended them easily, often leaving a pining man who would try his hardest to woo her back.  It never worked.  Sophie’s walls were built higher than mine.

“If you can call it between.  I’m not sure what the correct phase is.  But she’s right.  You do have some chemistry. He looks at you like he wishes you were on the menu and I bet he has a very large appetite.”  

I decided not to reply.  I’d used up most of my daily words on the delivery man who was about to dump some of my produce on the doorstep at five this morning instead of waiting for me to unlock the door and yes, I had been here since that time.

* * *

The shower was blissful.  Somehow I’d accumulated three days’ worth of food splatterings and grime on my chef whites and I definitely smelled like gone-off fish.  It wasn’t until I got out of the kitchen and restaurant I realised what I’d subjected my friends to.  Or Jack.  Not that I was bothered about him – besides, he knew too well what it was like working in a kitchen.

I turned up the heat and doused my hands in a healthy dollop of Jo Malone body wash, one of my favourite indulgences.  Just because I spent my days without make up and with my hair scraped back, didn’t mean that I didn’t like nice, girly things.  

The Mount Street Social had an apartment above it that I usually rented out, generally to a member of staff that was in need of accommodation.  At the moment it was free, my previous front of house manager having found a permanent place a few streets away that had a garden. So at the moment I could take advantage of a decent bathroom and big walk in shower rather than using the tiny staff bathroom stuffed in a cupboard.  It was also handy if I was pulling a lot of consecutive hours, which in the early days I had been.

I lathered up and started to scrub.  My father had drilled into me that preparing food wasn’t always the most pleasant of jobs.  I’d wanted to be like Mary Berry or Nigella, making cakes and puddings and looking glamorous in the process, but I’d ended up as a fine dining chef instead of a TV celebrity, and getting to see how the other half lived had made me glad I’d taken the former option.  Both Blue and Mount Street were regularly stalked by paparazzi looking for their next fatty end of gossip.  Mount Street was designed to be dark and hazy, the use of plants and walls creating natural boundaries and giving at least the illusion of privacy.

Right now though, I wasn’t thinking too much about work.  I’d done seven days straight between the two restaurants, sorting menus and dealing with an implosion of staff and somewhere within all of that, I’d forgotten who I was, and that I wasn’t just a robot.

I rinsed off, slightly disturbed by the fact I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d washed my hair.  Turning the shower off, I heard a knock at the door, a fairly insistent banging that suggested the person outside had heard most of me singing at the top of my voice.

The towel wrapped around me was short and my hair was dripping.  The thought that it was a little too indecent didn’t particularly bother me: whoever it was was from the restaurant and if they were interrupting my shower, they could take me as they found me.

Jack stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his grey t-shirt tight enough across his chest to be obscene, not that I was looking. It was that long since I’d last had sex that I was pretty convinced my vagina had healed over and was about to start eating grass.  In fact, I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d seen a real life penis.  I also had no idea why Jack standing outside my bathroom was making me think about the last time I’d had sex.

Oh wait, could be something to do with the fact that his eyes were dropping down every few seconds to where my boobs were attempting to escape the towel.

And he wasn’t unattractive.

There were a few women, and the odd man, who came into Mount Street purely to see Jack at work.  The restaurant had been tagged a few times on social media with him in a photo, usually looking studiously at a pan or as he was carving meat.  The rest of the team teased him about it, all of which he took in his stride.  Jack wasn’t a drama queen; he was anything but.

“Is the kitchen on fire?”  My favourite language was snark. 

He shook his head.  “I tried your mobile but you were obviously rinsing off the smell of rotten fish.  We’ve a request for a closed restaurant three weeks on Saturday.  Booking for twenty but they want the whole place.”

That meant royalty, either the crown type or Hollywood.  “Who is it?”

He shrugged.  “It’s PA to a PA, probably to another PA.  If we accept the booking and cancel other reservations then we’ll get more details, but they’re prepared to pay a huge deposit.”

These things had happened before.  Just not when I was wearing only a towel.

Jack’s blue eyes bored into me.  “We have a full restaurant that night.”

I shook my head.  It didn’t do us any favours to cancel for a celebrity who would no doubt be in the press the following day.  “Offer them a date when we’re not booked and see what they say.  You want me to do it?”  I was a shit delegator.

He smiled at me.  “I think I can handle it.  I do have some people skills.  Not ones that extend to not staring at a semi-naked woman.  Sorry.”  He pushed a hand through his hair and I realised that this was the first time I’d see Jack look anything other than perfectly managed.

I shrugged, holding the towel at the sides.  Working in a kitchen meant that you were close.  In the heat of a Saturday night when the restaurant was packed and you were chasing your tail, you banged into each other.  Body parts would be nudged, touched by accident, brushed against and you barely noticed.  It wasn’t about the touch, it was about the food and that was far more important.

The kitchen in Mount Street was in the restaurant.  Diners could watch us cook, see their meal prepared.  You were the entertainment.  There had been occasions when both my boobs had ended up briefly in someone’s hands and no mention of it was made.  We were a performance, unscripted, but polished.

“I’ll let you off.  I figured you’d help it if you could.”

He laughed and turned away.  “I’ll get back on the phone to the PA.  My bet is that they’ll reschedule.  You should check out the review from last Thursday’s critic.  It fucking glows.”

If the review didn’t, something else was currently glowing.  My cheeks.  For some reason, Jack had made them feel hotter than the shower.Simone

When I found out who had placed the fresh stock on the wrong shelf in the cold store, not only would hell be paid, their wages would be docked considerably. And, if they had any issue with that, they could be thankful they still had a job.  If they still had one.  I hadn’t yet made up my mind.

Today was not a day where I would be taking prisoners.  I had no space.  And very little patience.

“Someone looks like she could do with a day at the spa.”

I raised my head over the counter and saw two of the women I considered to be my closest friends.  However, if I was going to get a lecture on being too harsh on my employees and needing to find alternative ways to relax, I’d downgrade them to paying customers.

“I have no time for days at the spa.”  I stood up, aware that I was wearing chef whites that were anything but white and my face definitely had a brown streak down it from an unknown source.

Vanessa and Sophie were looking as if they were ready for a photoshoot for London’s top business women with perfect make-up and what were probably designer suits.  I felt decidedly under-washed at the very least.

“What time do you finish?  We’re treating ourselves to lunch, shopping, cocktails and maybe more shopping seeing as Jackson has Teddy for the full day.”  Vanessa beamed at me, one hand on her still softly rounded belly.  The clever money said that she wasn’t making any effort to lose the baby weight because it wouldn’t be that long before she was accumulating more of it.

I shook my head, wondering what fresh hell I’d designed for myself by running two restaurants and being in the midst of opening a third.  “I don’t think I will finish today.  I may as well just move in here or into Toad Hall.”  

“That’s a point.  Why exactly are you here?  I thought you were interviewing chefs at the new place today?” Sophie Slater knew all about running a business; she owned eight spas across the capital, with one specialising solely in men’s wellbeing.  I’d met her through Vanessa and we’d bonded over too much vodka and her tales of terrible one night stands – mine were sadly lacking because of, again, the whole time thing.  

Plus, we had five divorces between the two of us – there was nothing like sharing good divorce stories to solidify a friendship.

“I was.  But Van Gogh has phoned in sick and I can’t get in touch with Jack.  We have a party of ten in at one and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a food critic coming in at some point today.”  Which was never what I needed.  We had a list of London’s terrible tasters pinned up in the staff room, with their names, preferences, foibles and photos.  One picture was currently on the dartboard but needed replacing as it was a little too holey. 

Sophie raised a brow.  “You have a chef called Van Gogh?”

“Victor.  You know we rarely use normal names here.”

She gave a little nod, her blonde hair coming loose.  “Do we need to have the working-twenty-five-days-straight-isn’t-healthy-talk again?”

“What I need is a chef who is reliable and manages to get in to do their shifts.  I knew Van Gogh was starting to get twitchy.  His previous employer – Donny from Haven - told me that he did four months and then moved on elsewhere.  However, I was arrogant enough to think that he’d be different here.  More fucking fool me.”  I knew I was walking the boundary between completely losing the plot and chef-meltdown when the cuss words came out.

“And if you were at those interviews for the Tipsy Toad, you might be slaughtering two big fat birds with one stone.  How many times have you tried Jack?” Vanessa sat down on one of the bar stools, picking up the lunch time menu.  

Jack was one of my chefs at The Mount Street Social, probably my best chef out of the three, and possibly the most talented across both of my restaurants.  He had never let me down, despite me trying to find fault for no particular reason.

“Twice.  He worked last night so he might be sleeping.  You two get comfy; I’ll get Rich to serve you.  How’s Teddy, Van?”  I couldn’t not ask about her little boy who had stolen my heart.  He was three months old and as cute as peach pie with added sugar.

She gave a thoroughly satisfied smile.  “He’s starting to understand the concept of sleep, which is useful.  Seph babysat him last last night.  We came in to find Teddy asleep on Seph’s chest and Seph desperately trying not to fall asleep.  It really was cute.”  

She held out her phone and showed me a picture, Seph’s sleepy eyes looking over the thick-rimmed glasses that made him look like a hot geek.  Not that I was lusting after my friend’s younger brother.  He was eye candy but he confided that much over food that he felt like my brother.

“I assume he’s since put that on social media?”  Seph was nothing if not an attention whore.

“Indeed.  I think the likes were in the tens of thousands.  Jackson was calling him several names when I was leaving.”  She looked at the menu.  “I’m thinking a pre-shopping cocktail won’t hurt.”

“Have you stopped breastfeeding?” I knew she’d been finding it painful and difficult, having been on the end of an emotional phone call when she was telling me what a failure she was as a mother.

Vanessa nodded.  “Not the easiest decision, but we were mainly on formula anyway.  And he’s growing so much.  I gave it my best shot.”

Sophie put a hand on her shoulder.  “Stop it.  We’ve had this conversation.  And if you turn into a blubbering mess I will tell Jackson and you know what he’ll do.”

I smiled at Sophie.  We all knew what he would do.  Out of all of his brothers he was the biggest fixer and if he thought that Vanessa was still feeling down about the whole feeding thing, he’d be trying to make some huge gesture.

“I’m over it.  We have a healthy son who is on the ninety-seventh centile for his height.  And the rest of today is about me.”

The restaurant door opened and a mountain of a man walked through it; one that I recognised by the sound of his footsteps or even the faint scent of his cologne.  Working in a kitchen was intimate.  You spent fourteen-hour days together in a small confined space with a ton of heat.  It was pressured: food was an essential and everyone was a critic, especially on a Saturday night when the restaurant was packed and what could go wrong would.

But I could list the facts I knew about Jack Rhodes on both hands with a finger to spare.

“Do you need a lesson on how to answer your fucking phone?”  I snapped as soon as he was in hearing distance.

Jack gave me his usual half-amused glance.  Nothing I did or said ever pushed his buttons and I’d spent the last six months trying my best to do so.

“Sorry, Chef.  I’ve been busy.  I got your message though, so if you want me to take over I’m good to go.”  He started to take off his jacket, exposing biceps that his t-shirt looked to be strangling.  He was built, something Sophie had not failed to notice.  Hell, neither had I and I’d been dead from the waist down for the last half-decade.

“If you can, it means I can get to Toad Hall to interview the chefs.”  The Tipsy Toad was my latest project, a tapas bar aimed at mid to high range diners, looking for an intimate, less formal experience than a high-end restaurant.  The Mount Street Social and my first restaurant, Blue, were doing phenomenally, except for the odd staffing issue.  Toad Hall, as we’d nicknamed it, was my baby.  In my head it was going to be the sort of place where I wanted to hang out and relax, enjoy good food and drinks in a subtle and atmospheric building.  I’d taken breaks in Spain and Cuba and had checked out the eateries that were off the beaten track, finding inspiration easily. 

Jack studied me, making me wish I could tell what he was thinking just for once, and then gave a subtle nod.  “I got this.  You sort yourself out.  You might want to start with a shower.”

I moved my hand up to where he’d glanced.  “I think it’s stock.  Long story, but Ramirez is getting his pay docked.”

His grin froze me.  For the most of it, I ignored that fact that Jack was one of the most attractive men currently in my life.  This wasn’t because I had a no banging my employees policy – we worked in a kitchen; sex and food kind of hung together and at the end of many a busy shift there were shenanigans of the highest order that no one acknowledged because shit like that happened – but I didn’t need any complications.  Given how little I knew about Jack, I was wary.  Experience had taught me well.

“I take it he’s been rushing the cold store?”

“You knew?” I raised my brows so the fire leaving my nostrils didn’t singe them.

Jack shrugged then folded his arms, making his biceps bulge.  I was pretty sure that Sophie was gawping at this point.

“I’ve spoken to him twice already.  He’s careless and too concerned about banging his new girlfriend to do his job properly. Let me have another word.”

“Why? The last two words you had clearly weren’t very effective.”  There had been a memo in management school about how to speak to your staff but I’d missed it, mainly because I hadn’t attended.  No chef I’d ever worked under had taught me anything less than being blunt.  There wasn’t time.

Jack didn’t flinch.  “They were more effective than you’d think.  Ramirez is good at a lot of stuff, just not organising at the end of the day.  Trust me.”

My back stiffened.  I despised being told to trust anyone, two marriages had seen to that, plus a father who, despite being an amazing chef and mentor, had seen me as only one thing.

“He cocks up again and he’s gone.  The specials, the belly pork and David from the fish market will be later.  Think about the salted cod.”  I moved away from him, back towards Vanessa and Sophie and pulling off my apron that looked as if the contents of six pans had been thrown over it.  Generally, I had more decorum with my chefs as we needed to work as a team, but Jack’s persistent ghosting was irritating more than it should.

“What time are you interviewing?” Sophie had just given her order to Rich.

“In about two hours.  I need to look less cheffy and it might take that long.”  I also smelled faintly of the fish we were serving today having already gutted and boned the salmon myself.

“Go grab a shower then have a cocktail with us.  You might need something to temper you after that.”  Vanessa gestured towards Jack, who was giving instructions to the other seven members of the kitchen team who were on duty. His manner was the opposite of mine: quieter, fewer words, but he commanded as much respect.  I couldn’t dispute that.

“You realise you’re staring at your chef?” 

I jumped as Sophie whisper in my ear, her hand clamping down on my arm.

“Jesus, you need a bell round your neck!”

“Only on a weekend.  But seriously, you two have some serious sparks.  I’m a tad jealous.  Tapping that would be a pleasure and a half.” Sophie licked her lips, something that I found rather disturbing.

I looked at Vanessa and she shook her head.  “I’m assuming she’s between fuck buddies again?”  Sophie was notorious for casual relationships.  She ended them easily, often leaving a pining man who would try his hardest to woo her back.  It never worked.  Sophie’s walls were built higher than mine.

“If you can call it between.  I’m not sure what the correct phase is.  But she’s right.  You do have some chemistry. He looks at you like he wishes you were on the menu and I bet he has a very large appetite.”  

I decided not to reply.  I’d used up most of my daily words on the delivery man who was about to dump some of my produce on the doorstep at five this morning instead of waiting for me to unlock the door and yes, I had been here since that time.

* * *

The shower was blissful.  Somehow I’d accumulated three days’ worth of food splatterings and grime on my chef whites and I definitely smelled like gone-off fish.  It wasn’t until I got out of the kitchen and restaurant I realised what I’d subjected my friends to.  Or Jack.  Not that I was bothered about him – besides, he knew too well what it was like working in a kitchen.

I turned up the heat and doused my hands in a healthy dollop of Jo Malone body wash, one of my favourite indulgences.  Just because I spent my days without make up and with my hair scraped back, didn’t mean that I didn’t like nice, girly things.  

The Mount Street Social had an apartment above it that I usually rented out, generally to a member of staff that was in need of accommodation.  At the moment it was free, my previous front of house manager having found a permanent place a few streets away that had a garden. So at the moment I could take advantage of a decent bathroom and big walk in shower rather than using the tiny staff bathroom stuffed in a cupboard.  It was also handy if I was pulling a lot of consecutive hours, which in the early days I had been.

I lathered up and started to scrub.  My father had drilled into me that preparing food wasn’t always the most pleasant of jobs.  I’d wanted to be like Mary Berry or Nigella, making cakes and puddings and looking glamorous in the process, but I’d ended up as a fine dining chef instead of a TV celebrity, and getting to see how the other half lived had made me glad I’d taken the former option.  Both Blue and Mount Street were regularly stalked by paparazzi looking for their next fatty end of gossip.  Mount Street was designed to be dark and hazy, the use of plants and walls creating natural boundaries and giving at least the illusion of privacy.

Right now though, I wasn’t thinking too much about work.  I’d done seven days straight between the two restaurants, sorting menus and dealing with an implosion of staff and somewhere within all of that, I’d forgotten who I was, and that I wasn’t just a robot.

I rinsed off, slightly disturbed by the fact I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d washed my hair.  Turning the shower off, I heard a knock at the door, a fairly insistent banging that suggested the person outside had heard most of me singing at the top of my voice.

The towel wrapped around me was short and my hair was dripping.  The thought that it was a little too indecent didn’t particularly bother me: whoever it was was from the restaurant and if they were interrupting my shower, they could take me as they found me.

Jack stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his grey t-shirt tight enough across his chest to be obscene, not that I was looking. It was that long since I’d last had sex that I was pretty convinced my vagina had healed over and was about to start eating grass.  In fact, I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d seen a real life penis.  I also had no idea why Jack standing outside my bathroom was making me think about the last time I’d had sex.

Oh wait, could be something to do with the fact that his eyes were dropping down every few seconds to where my boobs were attempting to escape the towel.

And he wasn’t unattractive.

There were a few women, and the odd man, who came into Mount Street purely to see Jack at work.  The restaurant had been tagged a few times on social media with him in a photo, usually looking studiously at a pan or as he was carving meat.  The rest of the team teased him about it, all of which he took in his stride.  Jack wasn’t a drama queen; he was anything but.

“Is the kitchen on fire?”  My favourite language was snark. 

He shook his head.  “I tried your mobile but you were obviously rinsing off the smell of rotten fish.  We’ve a request for a closed restaurant three weeks on Saturday.  Booking for twenty but they want the whole place.”

That meant royalty, either the crown type or Hollywood.  “Who is it?”

He shrugged.  “It’s PA to a PA, probably to another PA.  If we accept the booking and cancel other reservations then we’ll get more details, but they’re prepared to pay a huge deposit.”

These things had happened before.  Just not when I was wearing only a towel.

Jack’s blue eyes bored into me.  “We have a full restaurant that night.”

I shook my head.  It didn’t do us any favours to cancel for a celebrity who would no doubt be in the press the following day.  “Offer them a date when we’re not booked and see what they say.  You want me to do it?”  I was a shit delegator.

He smiled at me.  “I think I can handle it.  I do have some people skills.  Not ones that extend to not staring at a semi-naked woman.  Sorry.”  He pushed a hand through his hair and I realised that this was the first time I’d see Jack look anything other than perfectly managed.

I shrugged, holding the towel at the sides.  Working in a kitchen meant that you were close.  In the heat of a Saturday night when the restaurant was packed and you were chasing your tail, you banged into each other.  Body parts would be nudged, touched by accident, brushed against and you barely noticed.  It wasn’t about the touch, it was about the food and that was far more important.

The kitchen in Mount Street was in the restaurant.  Diners could watch us cook, see their meal prepared.  You were the entertainment.  There had been occasions when both my boobs had ended up briefly in someone’s hands and no mention of it was made.  We were a performance, unscripted, but polished.

“I’ll let you off.  I figured you’d help it if you could.”

He laughed and turned away.  “I’ll get back on the phone to the PA.  My bet is that they’ll reschedule.  You should check out the review from last Thursday’s critic.  It fucking glows.”

If the review didn’t, something else was currently glowing.  My cheeks.  For some reason, Jack had made them feel hotter than the shower.